


The Sea and its Sun

by orangefriday



Category: Thai Actor RPF, เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV) RPF
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Hunger Games, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangefriday/pseuds/orangefriday
Summary: He doesn’t want to believe it. Or believe that he’s been so stupid to love someone that he has to eventually kill. Gulf can’t be just another kill under a tribute’s belt. He’s meant for so much more. For great things. Mew had fantasized a night too many of leaving it all, of an uprising. A Rebellion. Of a life where he and Gulf live.A MewGulf Hunger Games AU.
Relationships: Mew Suppasit Jongcheveevat/Gulf Kanawut Traipipattanapong
Comments: 36
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A WIP. Please give me encouragement as I have a problem with finishing fics. 
> 
> I posted [the original AU idea](https://twitter.com/fishncatz/status/1298160863195455494) on twitter and then couldn't stop thinking about it. It's different from the original idea though! Also I am a casual Hunger Games fan but I'm doing my best by re-reading the books and doing my research. Things will be conveniently twisted to fit this AU.
> 
> Thank you for anyone who reads this. I hope you enjoy it!

☾ ☾ ☾ 

What is beyond the sea?

Mew wonders this constantly. He wonders this as he digs his fingers into the hot afternoon dirt. And as he leans into the winds that rage in the air along the seaside cliffs. The salt spray of the ocean below cools the warm skin on his neck. 

The sea has to come from somewhere. Even if the boats are only allowed to sail within the roped-off confines of District 4, the water has to begin and end some place else.

He closes his eyes and thinks about his father. 

_“Lukchay ja.” My son._ _“Look at the moon. Look how it pulls water from the sea to fill the beaches.”_

They had often looked at it together when he was a child. In evenings after a day of fishing on the boats and their hands would be raw from pulling in nets and their cheeks dusted with dried sea salt. They’d watch as the moon rose above the horizon, replacing the dying sun and blanketing the beach with white blue light. Father would toe off his boots and set his feet into the dark ocean. A younger, laughing Mew would follow suit, albeit less gracefully as his own boots go flying off somewhere behind him. 

And his father always looked so faraway in these moments. A man walking deeper and deeper into the ocean with his face turned up towards the glowing moon. A stillness would overtake him, like he was trying to decipher the contents of the sky. And sometimes, he would walk so far, Mew would start treading in the water. His head barely above the surface. So he’d call out for his _pho_ and that always rewarded Mew with the sight of his father turning back to him with a smile and laugh. A hand outstretched in invitation for Mew to join him and he’d swim towards those open arms.

_“Nam keun hai reep tak.”_ _When the water rises, hurry to get some,_ his pho would say as he held Mew close with one arm. His other hand would grab at the water, catching nothing.

He prefers this memory over his last one of his father. The one where he’s twelve and his name is called in the reaping. He remembers his pho stepping in front of him, back straight and large and voice booming as he volunteers. It’s unheard of. His father was thirty years old, twelve years too late for the arena. And he had already survived one of the Games when he was sixteen. He needn’t go through it again.

But they allowed it and he does. 

He remembers his mother crying out, between horrid sobs and tears, that she can’t lose him, that he can’t protect their son if he’s dead. That he has to win. “There are still six more years he could be reaped, damnit!”

It’s the first and only time he hears his mother swear. 

“That’s one less than seven, _thirak,_ ” he had said. The Peacekeepers take him away before he can even finish kissing them goodbye. 

His father had been veiled as a hero throughout the fanfare before the Games. _The Loving Father_ is what they had called him back then. Like he was some deity that was being sacrificed on the cross. Mew had read something about that in one of the books his family had smuggled in from past times. 

Eighteen years later and he’s his father’s age now. The entire District still treats him and his mother like cracked porcelain. They don’t dare speak his father’s name, but the jealousy runs deep. They all believed they received special treatment; more rations, more favours from the Capitol, for being the wife of a victor and the son a dead man sacrificed for. When in reality, the moment his father died, the Capitol’s interest in them also did. So Mew had had to grow up that day. Somehow make himself a man at twelve. His father robbed from him as the Capitol squeezed every last ounce out of his father’s image so much so that it had sparked the beginnings of District 4’s very first Career Tributes. Eager for glory. For fame. And Mew no longer had to worry about the reaping.

Instead, he focussed on keeping him and his mother alive. He took everything his father taught him and cast it into the sea. Learned to fish by himself, to navigate the limited waters for the best catches, and to play politics. To charm his way into the inner circles of merchants and placate the greed of Peacekeepers.

He was good at it. It’s how he gains more rations from his catches than most. It’s how he keeps his mother out of the canneries, away from the scrutiny of their own District. And it’s how he keeps himself busy. 

Because with even one moment alone, he will be already thinking about jumping off the cliff edge and returning to his father’s side. 

Mew realizes he has lost track of time when he sees that the tide has already come in steadily below him, swallowing up the barnacled rocks and bringing home the seashells left out during the day. The moon rising and its broken reflection in the sea is the only way he can differentiate between black water and black sky. 

He hauls himself up, his bones aching from the long day. His fishing overalls feel like twenty extra pounds around his swollen ankles. There is nothing to bring home today, no fish or shellfish, as all of today’s efforts was stolen by the Capitol. The first reaping at District 12 was tomorrow, so more was being taken in preparation for the Hunger Games. 

But going home empty handed always feels wrong. So Mew plucks a dandelion from the tall grass along the trail and starts heading down the cliff in silence. The seagulls’ calls fill the space between the boom of the ocean and the quiet beyond the docks. Normally at this hour, people are turning in for supper. By now, the smell of grilled and smoked salmon should be permeating throughout the streets. But tonight, the air is empty but there are people about speaking in whispers and shrouded by some kind of odd energy that drips with dreadful anticipation. Few fires are burning and when Mew approaches the foot of the Victor’s Hill, he spots a small crowd gathered at the Correspondence Post. 

“Is this true—?”

“— _all_ ages?”

“— the 75th Hunger Games —”

“N-no, does that mean —”

He doesn’t catch anymore as everyone drops their voices into a hush when they see him. They make way as he walks up to the post, their terrified faces bathed in stark white light as a new announcement from the Capitol flashes on the screen. What he sees stops him in his tracks. 

It’s his father’s face, unnaturally edited, striking a victor’s pose against the emblem of Panem. 

It feels like a punch to his gut. And Mew almost recoils from the sight but he clenches his teeth and forces himself to read the announcement:

“ ** _INTRODUCING THE 75TH HUNGER GAMES QUARTER QUELL._**

_ALL CITIZENS ARE REQUIRED TO REMAIN VIGILANT IN ANTICIPATION OF THIS HISTORIC THIRD QUARTER QUELL — A CELEBRATION OF THE 75TH HUNGER GAMES…_

_ON THE 25TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE OUR GAMES, EACH DISTRICT WAS MADE TO VOTE ON WHICH TRIBUTES WOULD REPRESENT THEM._

_TO CELEBRATE THE 50TH ANNIVERSARY, AND MARK THE SECOND QUARTER QUELL, EACH DISTRICT WAS REQUIRED TO SEND TWICE THE NUMBER OF TRIBUTES TO THE ARENA, AS A REMINDER THAT TWO REBELS DIED FOR EACH CITIZEN OF THE CAPITOL DURING THE DARK DAYS OF REBELLION._

_NOW — FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER — ALL CITIZENS OF ALL AGES IN EACH DISTRICT WILL HAVE A CHANCE AT WINNING THIS YEAR’S QUARTER QUELL GAMES. THE CAPITOL MANDATES THAT ALL TRIBUTES ARE TO BE REAPED FOR A FAIR AND OPPORTUNE CHANCE AT PARTICIPATING IN THE 75TH HUNGER GAMES._

_WHETHER OLD OR YOUNG, SEASONED OR NEW, MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOUR._

_From the Desk of President Coriolanus Snow.”_

He almost crushes the dandelion in his fist, but stops himself. 

Was his father’s sacrifice not enough? Mew would be reaped another year after all. And there would be no one to take his place this time. 

He should be used to the Capitol and its antics by now. But something inside of him bubbles up and takes hold of his throat regardless. They’ve really done it this time, using his father’s image to gather people up for their sick pleasure. 

His father, the young victor, the too-old tribute and the late martyr. The Capitol had targeted and killed him the moment he had entered the arena. Mew has no evidence of this, but he feels this in his core. 

It takes all of his self control not to scream right then and there at the people who had been avoiding him and his family like the plague for the past decade. Instead, he stands up straighter, makes _wai_ to the memory of his father and leaves.

* * *

Maybe his mother doesn’t know yet. 

Mew spends the trek up the hill taking deep breaths. Shaking out his arms and kicking at the gravel with his boots. Trying to channel calmness from the still night. The crickets cheer him on loudly in the brush.

He hopes his mother had stayed in today. Maybe spent the day making fishing hooks on the porch or washing out the clams he collected from yesterday. 

The Capitol’s announcement was probably posted some time before dinner, at the end of everyone’s work day. How cruel it is to throw something like this the night before the first reaping. 

He hates it. But he hates the idea of his mother reading the announcement without him even more.

“Mama?” Mew calls when he enters their home and closes the door. A fishing spear hangs on the back of it and Mew runs a hand along its staff out of habit.

It’s the spear his father used. It’s nothing special. Plain wood, split into four prongs at the end. He remembers his father making it a few days before the reaping when he was twelve. It hasn’t even touched water yet. 

The weight of its presence feels heavier tonight and all Mew can do about it is look away. 

He walks down the short corridor to the closet and takes off his overalls and dirty boots. Careful not to make a mess. It’s a neat, modest home that they have, and all together too large for just a fisherman’s family. The walls and shelves are littered with crafts and trinkets Mew has collected throughout the years. When he’s out working the nets, he catches more than just fish and squid and clams. Sometimes, he catches relics from another time. Most of it is unknown to him, even to his mother. They try to preserve it all as best they can, carefully cleaning away damage and putting back together broken parts. Similar to the way his mother and father had clung onto what little fragments they knew of the ancient language they shared that only a few others in their District spoke. 

His mother is in the middle of the kitchen, knees tucked underneath her as she hand feeds their dog, Chopper. The small stocky golden ball of fluff abandons her in favour of jumping and pawing at Mew’s ankles, barking the entire way he waddles to him. He scoops Chopper up into his arms and breathes in the warm, distinct smell of his beloved pet. “And hello to you, Chopper.”

“Mew.” She smiles up at him as he bends down to sniff her cheek in greeting. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. His mother looks like she always does like grand elegance wrapped in a small woman’s body.

He helps her up and leads her to the kitchen counter. One good thing about being a victor’s son and a losing tribute’s family, is they’ve been able to keep their expansive home out in the hills of District 4, but are mostly left alone by the other victors to do as they pleased. No busybodies poking their heads in, stirring up gossip and talk. They’re not like the other victor’s families and few care to find out why. So no one would be coming into his home to break the news to his mother. He’d do that himself, as the dutiful son that he is. 

He’ll tell her about this year’s Games. That his father’s face is outside, aggressively bright in the dark night, plastered too large and painted to a point where he’s almost unrecognizable on a poster made by the Capitol. That the nightmare they thought they had escaped is not over. That both their names will be in the reaping this year, along with thousands from their own district.

And that, despite it all, her husband is still dead. 

He’ll tell her all of that. Somehow. For now, he gives her the dandelion he had picked and is rewarded with another smile and she tells him to sit. He settles Chopper in his lap as his mother scoops up a ladle of _tom yum talay_ into a bowl for him. It smells amazing. He can already taste the sweet shrimp, mussels, and fresh lemongrass. His mother had told him that back then, before the Capitol, before Panem, before the Wars and the Destruction, her grandmother’s mother made it spicy with a paste called _nam prik pao._ It would stain the bowl red and water the eyes. Mew wonders what _spicy_ tastes like. He imagines it would sting his tongue, like the bitter bite of too dry sardines. 

“How was your day?” he asks. 

She hums in reply. Just being home chases away a bit of the anxiousness trapped in his fingers. “It’s always a good day when you come home at the end of it.” 

Mew smiles back at her, a sudden sense of guilt washing over him. He wants to push it away though. Finish his dinner. Talk about Chopper. Sit in front of the heater and hold his mother’s hand. 

He doesn’t want to tell her that they’re all part of the reaping this year. 

Mew swallows a mouthful of soup. But the gnawing inside of him comes right back up, making his tongue dry and good soup tasteless. 

“Mama…” he begins, but the words get caught in his throat and he looks down at the table instead. Looking to the grain in the wood for courage. 

He has to tell her. Not talking about it doesn’t change anything. 

“Did you see the announcement today?”

Nothing is said for a moment too long and Mew almost looks up but a gentle hand finds his and holds it firm.

“I did _,”_ he hears her finally say. Damn. She knows. Knew all along. Did she walk down that hill looking for him, only to find his father’s made up face staring back at her? Were there people watching her, expecting her to do something or say something? Get mad? Cry? Mew should’ve been there for her. She shouldn’t have had to find out all alone. He should’ve went straight home after work. Instead, he had let himself get lost in his memories and in his thoughts of dying. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. The tightness that’s been holding his heart hostage since he started up the hill becomes even more unbearable and he doesn’t know how to escape from it. He looks up at his mother finally, expecting her expression to mirror his. 

But she’s still smiling. “Why are you sorry?”

Mew doesn’t say it. There’s so much he’s sorry for. Too much. 

And Mew is suddenly reminded of the nightmare that had plagued him for years after his father’s death. Of the reaping. Of his name printed on white slips of paper. Of the entire glass bowl filled with only his name so that each time the escort picked a tribute, it was his name that was read out loud. 

Except now, it’s his mother’s name instead of his. The foreign thought strikes such a visceral fear in him that when he opens his mouth to speak, a sob escapes out without his permission. He will not lose another person he loves.He tries to laugh it off and finds tears have fallen too down his face. Chopper stirs in Mew’s lap and looks up at him.

It’s silly to think one of them might be chosen, especially now when the odds would be one out of thousands. But then again, this entire predicament is ridiculous. 

“I’m sorry for being late,” he says instead and laces his fingers with his mother’s weathered ones. 

Talking about it doesn’t change anything either. So they might as well enjoy the evening as best they can. 

“Don’t be,” she says, wiping tears from her own eyes. “As long as you come home.”

They do hold hands that night. Not in front of the heater but at the table, soup forgotten, eyes that will most certainly be swollen in the morning as they tell story after story about the time before when his father was alive. Mew thinks somewhere in the cold, lonely, night winds, he hears his father’s warm laugh.

**☼ ☼ ☼**

They’re supposed to wear their best clothes for the reaping. Dress up so you look good walking up to your execution. 

Whoever came up with that, Gulf thinks, _stinks_.

His clothes are already laid out neatly for him when he wakes up; his dad’s old blue dress shirt and his own dress pants he wears only once a year. It’s going to be a hot day, he can feel it. He doesn’t want to wear such a stuffy outfit but he knows his mae woke up early and prepared this for him. So he’ll do it for her, he tells himself.

It’s just another year. Another reaping. They’ll all stand in front of the wharf, packed together like sardines in a can. This year’s escort will flounce on stage and he won’t be listening, and the Panem history lesson he can recite from memory will play on the screen. He can already feel the afternoon sun beating on top of his neck, blazing hot and merciless in the sky.

Then the oldest Careers will volunteer and they’ll go on their merry way.

Except, this year, no one will be volunteering and all their names will be in the reaping.

Gulf has half a mind to be worried. The other half is focused on buttoning up his shirt, ignoring the slight shake in his fingers. 

“Nong, you missed a button.” 

It’s his sister, Grace, leaning against his doorframe with a small smirk on her face. She’s already dressed and ready. He gives her a look, pretending to be annoyed. 

“Aow, I didn’t.”

“You did,” she says again and walks into his room, pushing his hands away. He did actually miss a button. Grace gives him another smug look that he pointedly ignores. 

He stuffs his hands in his pocket and thanks her anyway. 

She continues fussing over him, making sounds and straightening his collar while brushing his hair with her fingers. This time, he pushes her hands away and shakes his hair loose again. 

“Are you even going to wash your face? Or comb your hair?” she asks, crossing her arms in disapproval.

“No,” he says. He’s probably going to go find a spot in the forest to take a nap right after anyway. Why bother? It’s rare they get a day off and he gets to do whatever he wants. And sleeping away this nonsense day is what he wants to do.

She huffs and shakes her head. “Whatever. What will you do when you’re chosen and all of Panem sees your dirty sleepy face?”

They have this kind of exchange every year, ever since Gulf’s been twelve. Even now, when he’s twenty-four, no longer eligible to be a part of the Hunger Games for quite some time now. Grace still teases Gulf for his complete disregard for his own appearance. And Gulf plays along, brushes her off with some smart comment or another. It was always their little inside joke between siblings, because the reaping had always been one in reality. It was just a grand ceremony they were forced to witness as the wealthier families sent their children off to die. 

He sees Grace’s expression falter for a moment, her words catching up to her. The realization that this year, they really _could_ be chosen, suddenly hangs heavily between them. 

Maybe Gulf won’t be able to take his nap after all. Maybe not all of them — his pho, his mae, his sister, or him — would be at the dinner table tonight. 

It’s a slim chance. The odds are one out of thousands and thousands. 

Grace is frowning, eyes downcast. He sees her swallowing, trying to fill the awkward silence that’s overwhelmed them in this moment. Gulf thinks of reaching out to his sister, hugging her and patting her back. 

If he did, it really would make today real. And it is. It’s real. The reaping is going to happen. 

There’s no use playing along anymore. 

So Gulf puts on his biggest smile and untangles her hands from herself and holds them in his. They’re warm and her fingernails are long. She looks up at him in surprise.

“But Phi, you’ll fix my hair before I go, na?”

Grace narrows her eyes, as if trying to read him. He squeezes her hands again before she finally breaks into a smile. Gulf hopes all she sees is appreciation for his big sister, as he swings their joined hands back and forth.

“You know how to be cute after all,” she finally says. Grace clears her throat and lets go of his hands, as if to say, Sappy Moment Over. “C’mon, pho made fish congee. We should go eat.”

Grace hits him gently on the chin and smiles over her shoulder at him as she leaves.

Her nose scrunches up when she smiles. Gulf commits this to memory.

* * *

Gulf sneaks off into the woods beyond the Victor’s Hill after breakfast, Grace’s protests to come back is lost to the call of the gulls and the fishing boats coming back with their morning catches. His mae is more reasonable and tells him not to dirty his outfit and to come back before noon for lunch. 

They’ll go to the reaping together with full stomachs. 

Gulf doesn’t often get the chance to wander. He spends most of his days helping out his pho and Grace with the shop. He wishes he knew how to mend shoes or sew shirts and pants, but Gulf is stuck up front, dealing with customers and taking in their ripped things and worn shoes. His mae is better at it than him, more charming and approachable. She’s been doing it for years before him and even now, customers still come in expecting to see her. But ever since he’s been able to handle the shop on his own, she’s gone on to work at the bakery. It meant more money for their family and warm bread every night.

His parents work so hard and his sister is the one that started the idea of expanding his pho’s shoe repair shop into one that also sells and mends clothes. Each finished piece is, what Grace describes it as, “Personally handcrafted for life in District 4". If Grace lived in the Capitol, she certainly would be a stylist for the Games. 

Gulf sometimes wonders if he should be doing more. If he should be off working on the boats or in the hatcheries, like most of his schoolmates have gone on to do. Instead, when the shop is quiet and empty, Gulf works on his fishing knots over and over again. It gives his hands something to do, even though he’s never fished a day in his life and probably never will. Growing up in District 4 didn’t automatically make everyone a fisherman. It’s hard gruelling work, after all. And if other work can be done, it’s much preferred. 

His mae says him minding the front of the shop is already a big help. So he guesses it’s all right, what he’s doing now. It’s where his family needs him. 

But something is always itching just beneath his skin. He feels it especially whenever he enters the forests and the sounds of the sea becomes muffled noise in the distance. Beneath the trees, Gulf finds not only quiet but _mystery._ It’s where he feels the need to know more, to see more, to _do_ more. It’s a different world in here. The forest breathes and lives and exists all on its own. Undisturbed. And it changes with every season. It fascinates him.

He ventures as deep as he’s allowed. Slipping quietly into bushes and coming across hidden places with little treasures. A fox’s den, vibrant coloured mushrooms growing on the stump of a dead tree, and an eagle’s nest way up high in a redwood tree older than Panem itself. 

Gulf wonders what this tree has seen in its lifetime. He touches the brittle bark, digging his nails into the grooves of the surface. Who else has touched this tree? Stood under its majestic height and had wondered if the world would have become like it is today? 

It isn’t fair. The reaping. The Games. The Capitol bathing in wealth while people in the Districts starved.

Gulf is lucky though. He has food on the table every night. His family is comfortable. He has parents and a sister. And he’s never had to worry about being picked for the Games.

Until now, that is.

He sighs and drops his hand back to his side. 

“Don’t be so ungrateful,” he says to himself. People in other Districts, like 8 and 12, don’t have Careers fighting to be tributes. In those Districts, being a tribute was synonymous with being dead. 

But he still can’t shake the unwanted fear out of his system. And then his mind starts to wander into dangerous territories, but he quickly tries to shut it down.

No. He won’t entertain it. 

He won’t think about his mae or his pho being chosen. Or their faces if Grace is. Of his mae having to leave the bakery to take over the job that’s left. Or the dinners and the breakfasts without the four of them altogether. 

Gulf’s not thinking about having to fight for his life or take one of his own. 

He doesn’t realize he’s been running until he’s out of the forest and staring at the fences of the victors’ houses. His shoes are muddy and his shirt is untucked. There’s dirt on his sleeve and he’s probably stained it with the sweat that’s pooling on his back. 

Grace is going to kill him when she sees him. 

Out of breath, Gulf composes himself, shaking loose the exhilaration that he only feels when he’s been running fast and lets out a ragged laugh. At least, if he’s in the Games, maybe Gulf can run his way out. 

Suddenly, there’s barking on the other side of the fence. Little high pitched yaps and growls that make Gulf jump. He can only see a small shadow through the cracks of the fence. It’s a small dog. A really fierce one at that, barking at him. Gulf looks up at the house but can’t quite place which victor it belonged to. 

“Chopper,” a man’s voice reprimands. But the dog keeps barking. Gulf can just barely see the top of the man’s head so he crouches in case he’s seen himself. Between the cracks, he sees the dog being picked up and the barking stops. “I know, I know. You’re so big and strong. Thank you for protecting us.” 

They go back inside. The man humming a song Gulf doesn’t recognize. 

He supposes he should get back too. The sun is high in the sky already, much to Gulf’s dismay. It’s almost time. 

He brushes the dirt off of his knees, knowing Grace is going to make him change into new reaping clothes, but he’s going to refuse. They won’t be picked. Right? So who’s going to notice or care? 

Gulf walks down the hill with a song stuck in his head and a little more convinced that this is just another normal day for the reaping.

☾ ☾ ☾ 

“… _Thirteen Districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother, until nothing remained. And then came the peace, hard fought, sorely won. A people rose up from the ashes…_ ”

Mew wanted to gag.

In all of his years, the same film had been shown. With all that money, you’d think the Capitol would invest in a new one every so often. But it’s the same every year. President Snow’s voice, calmly and gravely explaining the Games as if none of them knew how it all worked. As if their entire lives weren’t reliant on it and dictated by it. It’s the Capitol’s way of reminding them that they are all at its mercy. 

The Quarter Quell especially drills in the the fact of how little of a chance the Districts would stand of surviving another rebellion. It’s in the way they’re all forced to gather at the wharf and in the streets to stand in the afternoon heat. It’s degrading and insulting, Mew thinks. Especially with the way people both avoid and stare at him and his mother. The spectacle isn’t them, he wants to yell. It’s the Games. The Capitol. All of it.

Aside from this year’s escort, Jennie Panhan, the victors from the past games and the mayor all look uneasy as they sit up there on stage. After all, they could all be picked too. The Capitol’s message is loud and clear this year, “Look at how we can take any of you, force you to kill one another, and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you.”

At least, this year, the children can stay with their families. No need to line up the twelve to eighteen year olds like they’re fresh fish ready to be sold on the market. 

Mew is glad that he gets to stand with his mother now. She’s holding her head high, as she always does. She’s been their rock ever since the news of the how the reaping was going to work for this year’s Games. They both had pointedly avoided watching the reapings in the other Districts, even as the televised feed played automatically in their living room and the sound blasted throughout the streets. Instead, they had focussed on spending time with one another. Enjoying meals, playing with Chopper, and reminiscing more than usual. Mew had kissed Chopper more times than he’s ever in the seven years they’ve had him. He doesn’t even know who the other tributes are from the other districts.

Snow in the film reminds him though. Each year, each district would offer up one young man and one woman as tribute, to fight to the death. 

“… _in a pageant of honour, courage, and sacrifice._ ”

He hears someone scoff behind him. Another voice shushing them and Mew can’t help but smile as he sneaks a glance over his shoulder. It’s a younger man with dirty sleeves, holding his side, feigning pain. He’s standing with who is probably his sister with how similar they look. He stops his grimacing when he notices Mew, neck flushing red, and gives him an apologetic look. His eyes are wide like the baby deers that come out of the forest in the spring.

_Nalak nalak,_ Mew thinks. And turns back to face the stage.

For a moment, Mew thinks about another life where he and the man with the fluffy hair and doe-eyes could be friends. 

But the thought is banished when Jennie Panhan saunters up to take the mic. 

“Happy Hunger Games!” she exclaims, bright and bubbly as ever. Her dress shimmers and slivers like a silver fish out of water. “It is _so_ good to be back in my favourite District. Oh, what a _great_ vacation spot this whole place is! The beaches, the water, the waves!”

Jennie Panhan has been District 4's escort for a couple of years now, but hasn't had a victor under her belt just yet. So Mew knows she's dying for good tributes this year to win the Games. She's like everyone else in the Capitol: loud, extravagant, and dramatic. Except the first time Mew had met her. It was during her first year as escort when she had visited the existing victors before the reaping. It was probably the only visitor they've ever had since his father. 

She seemed to know a lot. About Mew's father. His mother. About Mew. Mew remembers the calculating glint in her eye as she chewed on a single bite of bread during her entire visit. 

But Jennie Panhan had been polite enough, for someone from the Capitol. A sickly sweet smile plastered permanently on her dark skin and amidst heavy make-up. Even Chopper didn't mind her too much. 

She goes on for a bit more, reiterating the fact that this is the Quarter Quell and what an honour it must be for everyone to have the chance to be chosen as tribute this year. Even though, Mew is pretty sure no one is happy about this. Either you’re a brainwashed eighteen year old who wanted to volunteer or you’re devastated about the entire idea. 

He’s thinking of his and his mother’s name in those glass bowls again. His face darkens and he sucks in a deep breath. His mother takes his hand and gives him a reassuring look, whispering, “There are still thousands of slips, lukchay.”

Mew wishes that thought comforted him, but it didn’t. 

It’s finally time for the drawing. Jennie Panhan says as she always does, “Ladies first!” but walks over to the glass ball with the boys’ names. It’s supposed to be funny and it would normally earn a few laughs, usually from the Careers who would already be stepping forward to volunteer.

But today, no one says a word as she reaches in, fingers wiggling as she takes her time choosing a slip of paper. Everyone is still, silent. It’s the first time in over a decade that the name could be _anyone_ and they’ll _have_ to be tribute. Even the ocean seems to have stopped its crashing and thrashing. Mew is nauseas and everything seems to blur into a massive blob of nonsense in front of him.

He hopes that it’s not him, that it’s not him, that it’s not him.

Jennie Panhan crosses back to the mic, her heels clacking incredibly loud against the hollow stage floor. She opens the slip of paper and reads out the name in a clear voice. 

It’s not him.

Mew doesn’t even hear the name. He’s too busy trying to still his shaking knees and catch his breath. His mother kisses the back of his hand in relief.

A loud cut-off cry sounds behind him. It’s the woman beside the doe-eyed boy who scoffed earlier. On the screens surrounding them, Mew can see the same man’s face, complexion ghastly white and frozen. It almost would’ve looked like a glitch if it weren’t for his sister beside him, who’s shaking and covering her mouth, desperately trying to silence her own sobs as tears wet her entire face. Another older man and woman cling to each other behind them, also in tears.

Jennie Panhan looks expectedly as she reads the name again, “Gulf Kanawut?” and everyone steps back to make room for the chosen tribute, except Mew.

Gulf Kanawut. He doesn’t look afraid as his gaze moves from the stage to Mew, who stares right back. They’re so close, just an arm’s length away. Mew thinks about it, about reaching out and smoothing out Gulf’s messy hair and wiping away that smudge of dirt on his neck. 

An eternity seems to pass between them. 

The moment is broken when Gulf turns to his sister and Mew steps back to join his mother. 

“Phi sao?” _Sister._ Mew understands the word even though he barely hears Gulf say it. His voice is soft and tiny, but Gulf is smiling. “How do I look?”

She’s shaking her head, doesn’t say anything. Mew knows all too well how you _can’t_ say anything. Not when someone you love has to go die.

He watches as Gulf hugs his family who cling desperately to him when he does. It takes the presence of three Peacekeepers to finally tear them apart and for Gulf to slowly but steadily take the stage. He fixes his own hair and rubs at his sleeves, trying to get the dirt off but it’s no use. Gone is the mischievous look Mew was graced with earlier. It’s replaced by something else, something strong and determined.

Mew watches him the entire time, unable to take his eyes off of him. 

Jennie Panhan fawns over him, calls him handsome and cute and makes to poke at his cheeks. But Gulf is looking at something beyond them, something over the hills of District 4 where the forests grow. 

He still doesn’t look afraid. Mew thinks he looks angry. 

Jennie Panhan moves on. “It’s time to pick our next tribute!” She’s does a spin as she approaches the other glass ball and makes a show of digging for the next slip. Mew has to force himself to look away from Gulf and focus on Jennie Panhan. He reaches for his mother’s hand again but in a moment of panic, finds that she’s somehow been pushed further into the crowd.

Before Mew can go back to her, Jennie Panhan is already reading from the slip.

He hears his mother’s name. 


	2. Chapter 2

☾ ☾ ☾ 

He almost drowned once.

It was in the middle of the night. He had snuck out on a rickety little rowboat, the same one he and his father had used on days when he didn’t have to work on the Capitol’s fishing boats. It was musty and too old and it creaked even with the slightest movement. Its wood was softened over the years and gave in like the belly of a fat trout.

He just needed it for one night. To check his crab traps. It was one of those years where all they were catching was smelt and Mew could hardly make any good trades. The Peacekeepers could only be convinced for so long that it wasan exotic taste unique only to District 4 before it lost its charm. He had set the traps up before high tide and planned to check on them in the middle of the night with no other fishers to compete with. His father used to do the same and taught him so. They’d always come back with more than enough and the crabs always looked and felt so monstrous to Mew.

 _“Don’t let them pinch you and drag you back down into the sea!”_ his father had joked. Mew remembers him prying a rogue’s crab claw off the hem of his pants and the way his pho laughed all night over it. They were supposed to be quiet so they wouldn’t get caught but somehow, his father’s chuckles had bounced along with the waves and were only ever heard by Mew himself.

Mew would never be able to catch as many crabs as his father used to.

Maybe he had been doing something wrong. Forgotten something his father taught him. Or maybe the crabs just liked his pho more than Mew. The winds had picked up and the boat was rocking in an unpredictable tempo. One moment he was throwing down another empty trap, his eyes dry and his bare hands burning from the bite of splintered rope, and the next he was under.

He hadn’t even had time to breathe.

His entire world had gone without direction. The boat and his traps were in pieces all around him. There was no up or down. There was only the thick blackness and its deafening stillness. Then the suffocating need to _breathe_.

This is how Mew feels right now. Like he really had been dragged down into the sea by a vicious, monstrous crab and his father wasn’t there to save them. Jennie Panhan’s voice calling out his mother’s name, was like the final wave that had taken Mew into the water.

She had been chosen. His mother was going to be a tribute in the Hunger Games.

It has to be a mistake. This can’t be happening. But Mew had seen with his own eyes the way Jennie Panhan’s painted nails glittered in the sunlight as she picked out a slip. Had heard her ecstatic voice boom through the speakers with his own two ears and had seen the way his mother’s mouth had dropped open after.

A Peacekeeper is gripping his arm and holding him back. Mew must’ve started to run after her because she is suddenly walking towards the stage, lead by more Peacekeepers. She’s looking back at him now, saying something to him, but he can’t hear anything. The wind passes by and her black hair covers her pale face. She looks terrified.

It was like every time Mew blinked, something else was happening. All of it was out of his control.

He needs to stop this. He knows he has to stop this. Like when he was in the water that dark, desperate night, and he had forced himself to swim, to _kick!_ even when he didn’t know if he was heading up to the surface for air or down deeper to drown.

A strangled cry comes out of his mouth as he breaks himself free. He calls for his mother as he pushes someone out of the way. Again, when he almost trips over a raised plank in the dock floor, and a final cry when he reaches her. Before he even registers his own choked out, urgent words, he’s gasping out, “No! Take me! Take me as tribute instead!”

Protests rip through the crowd.

“He can’t volunteer!”

“—but she’s the female tribute!”

“Is that—?”

“Ha! Who does he think he is? Just because he lives up on Victor’s Hill—”

“He should’ve died in the Games years ago.”

“If he can volunteer, then I should be allowed to!”

“Just get him out of here and get on with this damn thing!”

And then it’s his mother’s scream that cuts through the chaos as the Peacekeeper he had thrown off before catches up to him with a baton aimed for the back of his knees.

Mew’s head smacks hard onto the hot wooden dock below. The Peacekeeper’s boot digs into his spine while his already throbbing leg twists in an unnatural direction.

There’s more commotion he can’t see. The mayor arguing with a victor on stage, the whirr of every camera trying to take in the entire scene, and his mother saying to them — pleading, “Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!” Then to Mew, “It’s okay, lukchay. _Please,_ everything will be —”

“ _Quiet!_ ”

Everything stops. And Mew is surprised to to find that the loud, commandeering voice belongs to Jennie.

She clears her throat and the microphone screeches with feedback until he hears her knock it silent.

Her voice is sweet and sugary again, but there’s a bitter dark edge when she sings out, “This is dramatic, isn’t it? Even to _my_ standards.”

She laughs, but no one else does.

“Oh, let the poor man up! We’re not a bunch of savages here.” 

The pressure on his back disappears and he’s forcibly hauled to his feet. Mew sees Jennie Panhan throw an an overly exasperated sigh at Gulf, who is looking straight at Mew again. His expression is unreadable. He still looks far away. Closed off and distant. But his brows furrow and he opens his mouth as if to say something. Mew doesn’t have long enough to wonder what it is.

A sharp pain shoots up his leg and he almost falls but his mother wraps a much needed arm around his waist. There are scratches on his face and he’s bleeding.

“Mew,” she whispers in his ear, voice stern. “Get out of here. Listen to me. Everything will be all right. Go home. _Please_."

He looks down at his mother. His mae. His Mama. She looks so tired.

He had watched her age. Had watched and counted the laugh lines that had stayed on her face each year. And held her delicate fingers that worked skillfully in whatever they were tasked to do but had started to ache as the seasons came and went. Yet they never failed to hold his own with the same strength as they always had.

She had bandaged his every cut and nursed his every bruise. Fed Mew every meal even during the early days, after his father had died and they had lost everything. Even then, she had been there, steadfast and strong, comforting him every night when guilt would take control of his dreams. Even when he had also heard her cry, when he was on the other side of the front door, a bucket of mussels in one hand and his soggy boots in the other. Or in the early mornings, when she’d wake up calling out his father's name, but would always be met with silence.

Mew had already taken too much away from his mother. He can’t ask for anymore.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he says and with a sweep of his arm, pushes her behind him. Mew finds a camera just above Gulf’s head. Ignores the pain, stands tall and demands directly into it, “Take me as tribute instead.”

The Peacekeepers make towards him, batons out. He even sees Gulf take a step, but Jennie Panhan holds up a hand and they all stop.

It seems escorts hold more power than Mew thought. Or at least, Jennie does.

It’s a long moment. Mew has to force air out of his lungs and back in.

“But,” she says, sending him a calculating look. “You were not reaped.”

“I was.”

The murmurs start up again.

She holds up another hand. “When?”

Mew speaks louder so that everyone can hear him. “When I was twelve. When my father took my place.”

His mother tries to shake free from his grip, but Mew holds on as tight as he can to her, forcing her to stay where she is.

"Oh?" There’s a sparkle in her eye. It’s the same look she had given him when they had first met all those years. Like he was a gem she had netted out; odd, damaged, and broken, but rare. "What's your name?"

She should remember him. Or at least know who his father is. There aren’t any stories, aside from his own, of fathers volunteering for their children in their District. He doesn’t know what Jennie Panhan is playing at.

But he swallows hard and says clearly anyway, "Mew Suppasit."

"Mew?" Jennie Panhan taps a nail on her chin, making a show of thinking hard and then laughs hard. “ _Ah!_ That must be your father on all the posters. That was a riveting year for the Games, wasn't it? And the humble beginnings of District 4’s Career Tributes." She claps her hands in excitement. "Well then, with that logic, you _were_ reaped. And, as you all know, our dear, wonderful and merciful President Snow did so clearly state that this year's Quarter Quell is _very_ special. _Anyone_ that was reaped can participate in the Games, no?"

She looks around at the crowd, as if waiting for them or the Capitol to object but no one does.

“But we _should_ keep this fair. Try to follow the old traditions and what not.” She mumbles, “Although, I’m the first to love a little bending of the rules.” Jennie Panhan clasps her hands together and gestures to the crowd. “Are there any beautiful ladies out there that were reaped and would like to volunteer?”

No one volunteers. Anyone that’s ever been reaped is either dead, on stage, or not stupid enough to do it.

Jennie Panhan turns back to him and says, "So, I guess that leaves only you. Mew Suppasit, you are volunteering as tribute."

Mew can feel his mother pulling at his back and hear her whispers, fervent and desperate. “Lukchay, don’t —“

"Mama, _let go,_ ” he says harshly, because this is upsetting him and he won't cry.When the replay is televised later, he won't let them see his tears. They won't be able to brand him as an easy target. A weakling. They've already seen him beaten and thrown to the ground. He won't give them more.

So Mew nods, steels himself and pries off his mother's fingers from his shirt and ignores her pleas. He hopes only determination is shown on his face. And not the fear that's squeezing and twisting and biting at everything in his stomach.

Satisfied, Jennie fixes him with a smile and motions for him to come. It's a devilish grin and one might even call it an evil one. But it's the smile that allows Mew to limp up onto the stage beside her and Gulf, whose gaze is still steadily fixated on Mew. He almost doesn’t notice when one of the victors, a pale man with a crooked grin, gives him a thumbs up. Mew’s not sure if it’a a gesture of encouragement or one to mock him.

"Well, bravo!" Jennie Panhan gushes. "That's the spirit of the Games! C'mon, everyone! Let's give a big round of applause for our final tribute!"

There is a pathetic response. Wimpy claps and a few boos. Mew couldn't care less, holding his head tall and above the crowd of angry but now mostly bored faces. He resists touching his stinging cheek and tries his best to stand still, even as his leg threatens to give out. The mayor takes Jennie's place quickly and starts reading out the dreary Treaty of Treason.

Mew takes this time to look for his mother. He just wants to make sure she's okay, that she'll forgive him for speaking to her like that.

When he sees her, her face is streaked with tears and Mew feels like he's betrayed her. He almost looks away out of guilt but she mouths his name and touches three fingers to her lips and holds it out to him. It is an old and rarely used gesture in the districts, used occasionally at funerals. It means admiration, it means respect, and it means good-bye to someone you love. Mew remembers the last time he made that same gesture. Standing at the edge of the same cliff that he had sat at days ago but as a child then. No body or ashes to say good-bye to. Just the raging winds and the grey gloomy clouds and him and his mother. His arm pointed towards the sky, shaking.

Now Mew is truly in danger of crying. He sucks in a strangled breath and presses his lips together.

Fortunately, the mayor finishes and motions for Gulf and him to shake hands. Mew can barely keep it in, feeling like his vision might be drowned by the tears threatening to escape. He forces a smile on, remembering the cameras, begging his chin to stop shaking, and breathes through his nose.

Gulf approaches him and to his surprise, bends down to take Mew’s wrist and takes his hand. It’s not a handshake. He looks Mew right in the eye and gives him what Mew thinks is a reassuring squeeze.

Gulf holds onto his hand as the anthem of Panem starts to play.

☼ ☼ ☼

The moment the anthem ends, they’re marched off the stage and through the front doors of Town Hall by a group of Peacekeepers. Gulf is directed into a room and left alone.

It’s bright and stuffy and too warm. And he can barely see out through the window, its glass so thick that the crowd outside looks warped and far away. Gulf runs a finger across the sill and draws a line through the dust.

The line isn’t straight. It’s wobbly from his shaking.

The only moment he was able to be stay still during the reaping was when he and the other tribute had had to shake hands. Not that they ever _shook_ hands. He has half a mind to be embarrassed. He has never held anyone’s hand that wasn’t his mae or Grace’s. But as he had watched Mew stand beside him on the stage, unmoving and resolute, Gulf had an itchy feeling. It had crept up into his chest and had told him that maybe the man in front of him needed this. Needed someone to be there for him, at this ridiculous grand showcase of picking who to go die.

Mew Suppasit is brave though.

Gulf knows him. He knows the story of the Suppasits on Victor’s Hill. He had even helped Mew’s mae once when she had brought in boots to be repaired. Gulf realizes now, they must’ve been Mew’s.

Everyone says the Suppasits are intimidating, odd, and ungrateful. But Mew’s mae, she was just like any other customer Gulf had had. Even nicer than most. He can see why Mew did what he did, and so desperately at that.

He’s smart. Gulf wouldn’t have thought of that. If his mae or Grace were chosen, he wouldn’t have been able to come up with a way to volunteer for them. As much as he wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to think so fast and act so heroically. Gulf would’ve had to watch his sister and his mother enter the Games.

The room is so hot that it’s hard to breathe.

Gulf unbuttons the collar of his shirt and the ones around his dirty sleeves. Pushes them up and goes to sit on the cracked leather couch in the middle of the room. He should get ready for what’s about to happen. Wipe his sweaty face and take in a deep breath. This is the time allotted for the tributes to say good-bye to their loved ones. Any second now, Grace and his parents are going to be here.

He thinks about who else he wants to say good-bye to and how he’ll never get the chance to now. His old schoolmates he had gotten into so much trouble with. The little kids from three houses down that he plays ball with in the afternoons. And the baker’s family that his mae works for. It didn’t matter though, as long as he gets to see his family before he’s shipped off to the Capitol.

He hears several footsteps just outside the door and Jennie’s voice saying, “Come in and congratulate the tribute” before the door swings open and a furious, red-faced Grace tumbles in, charging at him.

She grabs at the front of his shirt, pulling him up and into her tight embrace and hits his back repeatedly, _hard._ His parents follow after her, holding each other. His mae and his pho look so small in this vast, large room.

Grace talks a mile a minute and Gulf misses most of it, too winded and occupied by the thought that this would be the last time he’d be in his sister’s arms. “—and don’t trust _anyone._ Even if they offer you the best cut of pork you’ve ever seen in your entire life. Eat worms before you eat whatever another tribute offers you. Long range weapons are better. Remember to find water. Water! It’s the most important thing.” Grace says all of this with her face buried in his neck and his shirt in her fists. Gulf can barely make out what she’s frantically saying. “Also that? Holding his hand? The Capitol is going to eat that shit up.”

He swallows. Tries out a joke. “What are you? My mentor?” It earns him another hard thump on the back.

She pulls back and looks straight at him. For a moment, she looks as she always does when he makes a dumb joke: angry, exasperated, and so _done_ with him. It’s the look she gives him before she gives in and starts laughing with Gulf.

But the laugh never comes.

“Don’t die,” she says instead, low and serious. “Don’t you dare fucking die. If you die, I’m going to—” She can’t even finish her threat and instead, buttons up his shirt all the way up again. She sucks in a breath and manages to continue, her voice small and shaky now, “Don’t die, Nong. I don’t want to be an only child.”

He tries to smile but Gulf’s not really sure anymore what his own face is doing. “I’ll try, Phi.”

Grace doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the visit. Instead, he leads everyone to the couch and she crumples at his feet with her head in his lap, claiming both his hands.

Gulf doesn’t know how to to say good-bye to his parents. So he just looks at them and hopes they understand somehow what he’s feeling. His mae sits beside him and holds him close to her side, like she used to when he was a child and they’d sit on the bench outside the shop. He thinks about kissing his mae’s cheek, once, two, three times, like he always does before he leaves the house. But he can’t bring himself to do it. His pho is holding onto his arm, not looking at Gulf with a grip that’s so tight around his wrist, it hurts. But Gulf doesn’t have the heart to tell him that. Not when he looks like all the blood in his face has been drained away.

“Be a good boy,” his mae says when the Peacekeeper is at the door and signals that their time is up.

His pho kisses his cheek and says in a small voice, “Be brave.”

Grace doesn’t move to get up even as the Peacekeeper orders them out again. Their mae has to practically peel her off of Gulf. He doesn’t push her off though. That’s the last thing he wants to do. Every second with them was precious to him now.

And Gulf almost forgets to say it. The doors are closing already and all he sees is Grace’s scrunched up face in agony as he chokes out, “Grace! I love you. I love you all.”

Gulf falls back down heavily onto the couch and closes his eyes, feeling with his palm the still-warm place where his mae had sat. _Maybe this is just a bad dream,_ he tells himself. Any second now, he’ll wake up. He’ll open his eyes and he’ll be in his forest, the rush of wind bringing down dead leaves to the dirt floor and his back against an ancient all-knowing tree. He actually wasn’t chosen and he’s not a tribute. He’s just Gulf.

He’s going to wake up and he’s going to go home to eat his Mae’s cooking. He’ll have to listen to Grace and his pho talk about threads and cotton and whatever else two people who loved clothing talked about. And then Gulf will climb into bed and dream about running and playing ball and tying knots and the sound of the sea will wake him up the next morning. He’s not going to the Hunger Games. He’s not going to have to leave his family. He’s not going to have to kill anyone. 

He’s not going to die.

Someone else enters the room just then, and when Gulf opens his eyes, he’s surprised to see who it is. It’s Mew’s mae. He can’t quite believe she’s there to visit him. It’s the last person he expected. After all, he’s supposed to be trying to kill her son soon. He immediately sits up straight, anticipating what she’s here to say to him.

She approaches him cautiously, like every step she’s taking needed to be done carefully and sits next to him. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her lips are set in a stern, straight line. Her bottom lip is quivering and her knuckles are red and raw. Gulf remembers how tightly she had held on to her son at the reaping.

She opens her hand and holds out a necklace to Gulf. It’s a heavy square locket on a gold chain.

“For me?” he asks, unsure. She nods and he takes it, holding it gingerly.

She opens the locket for him, her fingers lingering on his. Inside, is silver ring placed on top of a dried, pressed head of a dandelion.

Her eyes are fond and watery as she stares at what’s in his hands. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then shuts it tight again. It must be hard, Gulf thinks. To watch Mew take her place and have an entire district protest and ridicule him for doing so. He wishes he had something to say to her. Anything, really. But it’s all stuck in his throat and nothing comes out.

So Gulf doesn’t push her to say anything. Doesn’t question the meaning behind the flower and the ring and why she’s giving this gift to him that clearly shouldn’t be for him. She needs this moment. And Gulf needs it too.

He watches the ring catch the misty sunlight that filters into the room.

A sigh. A shaky and sad look is shared between them. She says, finally, “He wouldn’t take anything from me.” She closes the locket gently. “Will you wear this in the Games?” They’re allowed to wear something from their district in the arena. To remind them of home. Gulf hadn’t even thought that far yet. She doesn’t wait for an answer and places the necklace over his head. “Will you keep it safe?” she asks. “For him? I want it to be with him when he —”

She stops. Gulf doesn’t need her to finish.

He covers her hand with his. “Thank you,” he says, not sure what else to say.

She gives him one more gift. A soft hand that caresses his cheek and a kiss that replaces it.

“Khob khun ka,” she says. _Thank you._ “For comforting my son.”

They sit in silence until a Peacekeeper summons her. And then Gulf is alone again.

* * *

The train station is swarming with reporters and flashing cameras. Gulf tries to avoid them but every where he looks, a long, bug-like lens is thrusted right up into his face. One gets so close that he flinches and has to take a step back, bumping into someone behind him. The person whispers in his ear, “Smile. You’re on camera.”

It’s one of the victors from his district, grinning wide in the direction of the reporters. His eyes are crescent moons and his skin looks entirely too smooth. It takes Gulf a moment to remember his name.

 _Mild Suttinut._ He won the games almost a decade ago. District 4’s newest victor. He surprised everyone when he volunteered, being so small and delicate-looking back then. Not your typical Career Tribute. So no one bothered with him, thinking he’d die from just the elements. So he surprised everyone again when it turned out he was very clever and very smart, and could kill viciously. He must be Gulf and Mew’s mentor this year.

Gulf wants to say something back, like _what’s to smile about?_ but just then, a car pulls up and Mew steps out of it. He instinctively touches the spot where the locket is hidden underneath his shirt.

All the cameras immediately move to direct themselves at the new arrival. Gulf lets out a breath when he sees Mew, who looks better than he had at the reaping. His head is held up high and his cheek has been cleaned up. There are still cuts there but you wouldn’t notice it because Mew is _smiling_.

It’s a brilliant one. Teeth flashing and eyes crinkled. Head tilting as he waves to each camera he passes by. So different from the face Gulf had watched over during the reaping. He’s still limping a little but otherwise, he seems confident, refined, even almost at ease. It confuses Gulf but then Mew turns to look at him and his eyes change. To what? Gulf’s not sure. He’s been intrigued by Mew since the moment they had interacted in the crowd.

That moment seems so far away now.

“Now _that’s_ a smile _,_ ” Mild says to Gulf. “Also, Kanawut, you’re staring again _.”_ He catches a glimpse of himself on the television screen on the wall that’s airing the arrival live and he really _is_ staring.

Gulf can’t help it though.

Mew gives them a nod as he takes his place beside Gulf and faces the crowd again. Gulf has to lift up a hand to cover his eyes as the cameras come on even stronger. He feels Mew’s hand touch his back as he takes half a step forward, shielding Gulf.

It takes Gulf a moment to snap out of it. To remember they’re being filmed, that they’re tributes now and even though they’re not in the arena yet, the Hunger Games has already begun. Mew is probably playing into that and Gulf finds himself following Mew’s lead as he tears his own gaze from the other tribute and meets the sea of reporters.

They stand there for a few minutes at the platform of the train while the cameras drink them up. Mew’s hand a burning constant on his waist. Gulf even smiles a little bit with some hesitation and the cameras flash faster and louder. Mild takes this opportunity to push Gulf and Mew closer together, which makes a few reporters _oohh_ and _ahh._

The doors to the train open and Jennie is there, arms wide open like a mother hen welcoming in new chiclets and they’re ushered in, much to Gulf’s relief. Mew drops his hand from Gulf’s back just as the doors slam shut and the train lurches forward. Mild yelps at the sudden way that it takes off.

He’s never been on a train before and he doesn’t know if his legs are wobbly from the intense speed or because he’s never been further from his family than he is now. Gulf remembers reading in a school textbook about the Capitol and how everything there is built with some high-speed technology or new-tech science or whatever. He just knows it’s _fast_ and the journey there won’t take much longer than a day.

“Mild, that was _brilliant_ ,” Jennie says and Mild laughs along. What they’re talking about is lost to Gulf. Then she turns to the both of them. Gone is the stage-smile she had adorned for the cameras and instead, she looks like she’s smelled rotten fish. “You two,” Jennie says immediately, looking pointedly at Gulf’s hands. “You should get washed up before dinner. It’s in an hour! And then we’ll make our introductions and get to know each other. Your rooms are to the left.”

Jennie disappears through a door on the right that automatically opens and closes with a hiss. Mild shrugs and walks after her, but not before giving Gulf a cheeky grin over his shoulder, leaving him alone with Mew.

Everything is moving so fast. Gulf feels like he’s missing half the story and has no idea what’s happening anymore. But he doesn’t miss the way Mew suddenly seems to be overcome with an incredible weight as his shoulders drop down just before he sways dangerously on his feet as the train takes a sharp turn. Gulf reaches out for Mew’s elbow to steady him but stops short, his fingers barely touching Mew’s sleeve. Mew doesn’t seem to notice so he takes back his hand. It’s the second time today he’s almost grabbed Mew and he doesn’t know if he should be doing stuff like this. If this was normal between tributes or if Mew even wanted it.

Gulf settles to ask instead, “Phi okay mai?” _Is Phi okay?_ and he almost bites his tongue when he sees the confusion in Mew’s expression.

What a dumb question to ask.

But Mew replies in English, “I’m fine.” He frowns. “Sorry. I’ve never… I’ve only ever heard my parents use that language.”

“Oh.” Gulf frowns. Mew’s mae had spoken to him in Thai and he had thought, maybe it would ease Mew somehow. Give them something in common with each other aside from just being tributes. Now Gulf just feels sad knowing Mew never had the chance to share with anyone else their unique language.

“We don’t get many visitors,” Mew explains. Gulf only frowns more. “But,” Mew continues slowly, “I like that.”

“Like what, Phi?”

“That,” he says quietly and Gulf leans in closer to hear, curious. Mew clears his throat but doesn’t look away from Gulf. He almost looks shy. “When you call me Phi.”

Gulf watches Mew smile, his face a little pink and he dares to think it’s cute. He also notes that this is the second time Mew has smiled like this, like the one he first saw. It’s sad, but his eyes are different. They’re warm and fond.

Gulf can’t help returning the smile.

“Then I’ll be your Nong.”

Mew laughs. It’s unexpected and seems to surprise even himself. It’s a pretty sound, Gulf thinks. He wonders how often he’ll get to hear it.

It’s a nice break. A pause. A moment where Gulf gets to forget where they are. He hopes Mew gets to feel the same way.

Mew tells Gulf they should go find their rooms. That “Nong should change into clean clothes”. Hearing Mew call him that fills something that he didn’t know needed filling inside of him.

Gulf follows as Mew limps past him to one of the doors on the left. The tribute train is fancier than anywhere Gulf has ever been before. There are crystal lights that twinkle and sway ever so slightly with the direction of the train. The walls are patterned blue and velvet. In the centre is a very large display of white roses on a shiny wooden table the colour of night. Gulf finds himself touching everything as he walks around the little foyer just before two other doors. It must be their rooms and he supposes it doesn’t matter which is his but he looks to Mew just in case.

Mew is staring with intensity at the roses, like they had done something to offend him. That itchy curiosity creeping up again inside Gulf. This time, it both burns and almost hurts. He doesn’t like the way Mew looks right now even though he can’t describe what it is. Just like how he hadn’t enjoyed watching that one Peacekeeper, faceless and cruel, grinding his foot down on Mew like he was a worthless bug in the sand and even more when Mew had had to fight tooth and nail to be heard over the bitter, heated crowd. Gulf takes a step forward but when Mew notices him, the look is gone. He nods at him, says he’ll see Gulf in an hour and then disappears through one of the doors.

The locket suddenly feels ice cold on his skin as Gulf stands there alone.

☾ ☾ ☾

When Mew enters his chambers, he collapses into the bed. He doesn’t even care that he’s still in today’s clothes and falls into a fitful sleep.

He dreams of his mother walking home alone, the hill never ending. Of Chopper, waiting by the door for days on end. His father dies over and over again against a bed of white roses. A song still on his lips even as the life in him leaves his body. Mew can’t save him. He can never save him. So the sea floods the train and they derail and Mew’s falling. A hand reaches out and grabs onto his. It’s Gulf’s. His eyes are round and shining bright against the blackness, his chestnut lips as red as the blood that’s suddenly covering their hands. And he can’t hold on anymore. It’s so hard to hold on. So he lets go.

Mew jerks awake, gasping for air.

How long has he been asleep for? It feels too long. Remnants of panic leftover by his dreams pack over onto itself at the thought of having to leave his room. He’s so tired though and his body feels like it’ll break if he moves even an inch so he doesn’t. Just lies there on his stomach and counts his breaths.

He gets to thirty-two before he forces himself up and finds out it’s only been about fifteen minutes. There are tear stains in the satin duvet and he’s already dirtied the entire bed anyway. So Mew ends up ripping out the sheets, throwing them into the corner of the room.

He peels off his clothes and goes into shower. Doesn’t even wait for the water to heat up before he gets in. He needs to get this grime off _now_ , wash out everything and drown everything out. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to feel. He’s dirty, he’s dirty.

It takes about a minute before all the things inside of Mew’s mind start to attack him again and the shower wall can no longer hold up his shaking body. He falls down onto the slippery cold tiled floor and just — _unravels._

An ugly, wretched cry escapes out of his throat. It doesn’t even sound like him, like it’s not really coming out of him, but it is.

But there is no relief in this cry. He just feels pathetic.

So he forces himself, again, to get up. To take deep breaths and wipe his face. Will his swollen eyes to stop crying and the cuts to stay closed.

This is enough. What good will it do for him to be like this? It solves nothing. He’ll still have to get out of the shower and dry off and get dressed. Still walk into the Capitol and smile through all of it. And still fight in the Games.

It doesn’t even make him feel better.

The life he had before is over now. This is his life now. However long he has of it.

 _I’m sorry I won’t be coming home, mama._ He had wanted to say this her back in that stuffy, dusty room in Town Hall. Instead, he had told her all the things she needed to know and remember to do, now that he would not be there to do them. Things he knows is the last thing his mother wants to hear. Like where to find mushrooms in the forest that she can sell. About the mussels under the east docks. And the Peacekeeper that patrols in the afternoons who almost exclusively trades only with Mew. And —

He would’ve gone on but she had stopped him. A strong hand gripping his closed fists. But he had refused to look at her. Couldn’t face her. Even though all he wanted to do was be held by his own mother. He does lean into her, lets himself this bit of refuge and breathes in her familiar scent for what will probably be the last time.

“I don't want to to kill anyone,” he had said to her, looking straight ahead at a crack in the wall. He would only play the Capitol’s game so much. He had a limit.

She did not protest. Only buried her face in his shoulder. She had tried to give him something, but he had only clenched his fists tighter and refused again. Mew knew he had to start then and now. Thicken his face and put on a show. It’s why he walked out onto the train platform, smiling. Forced himself to wave. To act like he wanted to be here. He won’t let the Capitol see him vulnerable again.

Mew puts on a new shirt and pants and throws his old clothes in the corner with the dirty sheets. The drawers are filled with fine clothes. Too many for just a day’s ride to the Capitol. He vaguely wonders what magic Jennie Panhan had had to pull to get their rooms prepared for two male tributes. He also finally makes the connection that Mild is the same victor that had given him the thumbs up back on stage. He wonders how Mild will mentor them. But he doesn’t think more about it when he opens the door to see Gulf, mulling around in front of the roses, also dressed in a new red shirt. His hair is still wet.

_I’ll be your Nong._

The thought of Gulf as his nong tugs at the corner of Mew’s lips.

Gulf notices him and smiles. “Phi.”

“Your hair is still wet,” Mew says. He clicks his tongue and gestures for Gulf to come in. But Gulf looks hesitant so Mew says, “Come on, you’ll catch a cold.” He closes the door just before the sickly sweet scent of the white roses in the foyer can invade his room. He tells Gulf to sit down on the bed and grabs a towel from the bathroom. If he notices the sheets on the floor and the naked bed, Gulf doesn’t question it.

He sits down beside Gulf and teasingly drapes the towel over the younger man’s head, covering his face. Gulf huffs and ruffles his hair with the towel for not even a second and throws it off onto his lap. Mew almost rolls his eyes and grabs the towel from Gulf and starts drying his hair for him.

“Dry it properly, Nong,” Mew says. Gulf’s eyes are wide as he look up at Mew. His ears as red as his shirt. _Nalak._ He remembers thinking the exact same thing just what was only hours ago.

Gulf is a nice distraction.

“Phi krub?” Gulf starts. Mew’s still drying his hair.

“So formal.” He swipes Gulf’s wet forehead with the towel.

“Khun Phi khraaab,” Gulf challenges when his face reappears from underneath. A small laugh follows along with full cheeks. Mew likes that.

“Alai na, Yai Nong?” 

“Aow!” Two can play at this game. Mew laughs and fluffs up Gulf's hair a bit more. Then Gulf asks, "Does Phi's leg hurt?"

"A little. But I'm fine." Gulf doesn't look like he believes him. 

"My mae would rub this oil on my feet whenever they were sore." Mew gives him an inquiring look. "I like to run," he supplies. "Made from dandelions, I think. The oil," Gulf trails off and hums as Mew rubs with the towel around the nape of Gulf’s neck, careful not to tug at the necklace there. Gulf eyes are closed now and he grins, noting the effect and enjoying it a bit too much. 

"I pick dandelions for my mother," Mew says, and focusing on drying and trying to ignore the pretty way Gulf's lashes flutter. 

_Picked_ , he almost corrects himself.

It’s another moment before Gulf’s eyes snap open again, as if remembering he has something to ask. He grabs Mew’s wrists and stops him and brings them to his lap.

Mew doesn’t know when he’ll get over the surprise he feels every time Gulf touches him. He swallows out, “What is it?”

Gulf looks hesitant again and scrunches his face, eyes searching, like he’s lost his words and he’s trying to find them.

Finally, Gulf says in a determined but small voice, “I want to be allies with Phi.”

Oh. Gulf is so forward. Smart, too. And Mew thinks if this was anyone other than Gulf, he might’ve been suspicious. Weary of this act of innocence. But even though he’s only known the other man for less than a day, Mew, for some reason beyond him, believes he can trust this nong. After all, Gulf has shown him nothing but kindness since.

And some might call him stupid and naive for thinking that. But it doesn’t really change what Mew’s had been planning to do during the games anyway. It might even make it a bit easier.

“Okay. We’ll be allies.”

Gulf looks up at him with raised brows.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“No, I do.” Gulf’s answer is quick and sure.

“Then why are you looking at me like that, Nong?”

Gulf is thinking hard. Maybe in another life, it would be a sight Mew would never get bored of. Gulf even leans closer, his lips parted and pretty, and Mew selfishly welcomes the closeness.

“I just want to understand you,” Gulf says carefully. Mew realizes Gulf has been still holding onto his wrists this entire time. His thumb draws tiny circles on Mew’s skin. “I want to know what Phi is thinking.”

He sucks in a breath. _Shia._ Mew wishes he lived another life for the thousandth time today. One where he can fully let himself indulge and explore the part of him that heats up when Gulf looks at him. Where he’d admit to himself he might be a bit captivated and a bit enamoured by this nong. One where he’d let Gulf know him. And one where he’d get to know Gulf.

But —

“You don’t need to do that.” He frees himself from Gulf’s touch and stands up. The reality of the situation is making its presence known again, especially as the train chimes Panem’s anthem to indicate the beginning of the hour. Gulf frowns and Mew swallows hard. “I won’t kill you and you won’t try to kill me. It’s as simple as that.”

Simple was the last thing any of this was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author ramblings: Thanks for waiting for this chapter <3 My initial plans for this chapter would've produced an insanely long one and I realized it didn't need to be that long! And it's always nice to post a chapter and get some feedback and encouragement so I'm not stuck in my own world, knocking my head against the wall lmaooo
> 
> Also fun fact: My late grandma would use this Chinese oil for pain relief and she always smelled like it. And the few times I would hurt myself, my dad would help massage the oil on my foot or arm or whatever. It's called "mo gai yow" in Cantonese or [Eagle Brand Oil](https://rootandspring.com/products/eagle-brand-medicated-oil). So if you ever sprain your foot or pull a muscle, rub that shit in. My mom would also rub a hot, hard boiled eye with its shell still on on my bruises when I was a kid. And then you get a snack!
> 
> I just love the idea of Gulf being babied by his parents, in their laps and having his bruises looked after.


	3. Chapter 3

**☼ ☼ ☼**

Gulf thinks Mew smells like home.

“I pick dandelions for my mother,” Mew says. Gulf watches the tiny smile that tugs just at the corner of Mew’s lips. It’s a precious bit that Mew gives Gulf. He thinks about the dandelion in his locket from Mew’s mae and tries to imagine where Mew had picked it. Was it from his home, right where the forests began? Or in the tall, dry grasses on top of the hills that hugged the shores of their district?

He wants to ask. But Mew leans in a bit more, his breath warm against Gulf’s cheek. Still drying his hair as he touches a spot just behind his neck and Gulf’s question fades away. Lost in the feel and this closeness.

Is this okay? Is this normal? Gulf can’t name what he’s feeling.

He knows Districts would often form alliances in the arena, especially between the Careers. But would tributes decide this right from the beginning? Before they even knew each other or understood each of their strengths and skills?

Gulf wishes he had paid more attention to the past Games. He would hardly acknowledge what was happening on screen. Preferring to doze off or throw pieces of lint from their couch at his sister. Grace would get so mad. She loved to watch the chariot rides and interviews before the games, critiquing the costumes of the tributes and even the ones worn by those in the Capitol.

He wonders what Grace will think of his this year.

Gulf remembers her in Town Hall. The absolute quiet storm of a person she was and has always been. And the surety of her voice, even as it trembled. He thinks about what his big sister would say to him in this moment.

_“Don’t trust anyone.”_

She'd be screaming at him now for it. 

But Mew? He's different. Gulf wants to trust him. No, he _knows_ he can trust him. He doesn't know why but he just, _knows._

And so what if they were allies? The Capitol would go crazy for that kind of alliance. The way the reporters at the platform had gone insane when Mild had pushed them together was a testament to that. They could gain a few or more sponsors. Get the supplies they’d need in the arena. They'd have a bigger shot at winning. More chances. Better odds.

He and Mew could be a team.

“What is it?” Mew’s voice brings him back.

But what if this Phi doesn’t want to be allies? What would he gain from Gulf, who doesn’t have any particular skillsets that would be helpful in the arena? Especially when Mew’s name is already associated with one of the most famous victors and tributes in the history of the Games.

He almost doesn’t ask. But the hope seeing Grace, his mae, his pho, and even Mew’s mae again, pushes him on. And the way Mew’s deep set eyes swim with the unknown like an alluring sea of mystery, makes Gulf want to stand side by side with Mew rather than against it.

He’ll think about what he’ll do once he’s forced to go against Mew. For now, he’ll run with it.

“I want to be allies with Phi.”

It’s a long moment before Mew responds as Gulf holds his breath. His grip tightens around Mew’s wrists. Something he doesn’t realize he’s holding until now. His head dips down to conceal his embarrassment but Gulf doesn’t let go.

Finally, Mew says, “Okay. We’ll be allies.”

He looks to up at his Phi to make sure he had heard right.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“No!” Gulf says quickly. “I do.”

He does. He’s just surprised at himself for being able to suggest it in the first place. Surprised he’s done everything that he already has, to be honest. Normal feels like an eternity ago and his home is hours away now. All he’s left with is the person sitting in front of him now. And Gulf realizes he hardly knows him.

“Then why are you looking at me like that, Nong?”

Who is Mew? Who is he when you take away the stories, the reputation, and the rumours? He’s a man that loves his mother, who can smile even through pain, and someone who’s eyes could fool everyone and anyone, but Gulf sees him. Sees the crumpled sheets in the corner of the room, heard the visceral cry that pierced through their walls and straight into Gulf’s chest, and he’d holding Mew now. His hands are tense in his own.

“I just want to understand you,” he admits honestly. “I want to know what Phi is thinking.”

He searches Mew’s face, holds his breath as he watches Mew’s lips fall apart. And for a hopeful moment, Gulf thinks Mew will say something. Tell Gulf he feels the same. That he’s hurting and he’s confused. That he’s afraid.

 _So_ afraid.

But Mew shakes free from his touch and stands up. Looks elsewhere and turns his body away from Gulf.

Panem’s anthem plays. Its tune untimely and foreboding. It leaves a disgusting taste in Gulf’s mouth.

“You don’t need to do that,” Mew says. Gulf starts to ask what but Mew continues, “I won’t kill you and you won’t kill me. It’s as simple as that.”

Gulf shuts his mouth.

He guesses he’s crossing a line. How stupid of him. Mew’s right. There’s no need for that. Not when he probably won’t even survive past the month. Being allies doesn’t mean being friends.

It would all be easier if they didn’t get too close. To continue on in the Game if one of them dies.

 _To move on,_ Gulf tells himself.

He nods slowly and swallows. Mew finally looks back down at him.

Gulf looks away though. Almost like he was burned by the glimpse of sadness in Mew’s expression.

They don’t say anymore.

☾ ☾ ☾

When they leave his room, Mild is there in the foyer. One hand on his hip and the other pointing at them with narrowed eyes.

“There are _two_ rooms, y’know.”

Mew shakes his head and feigns a smile as he greets their mentor. “I’m sorry we’re a little late and you had to come get us.”

Mild laughs sheepishly. “Oh, that’s okay, that’s okay! I’m happy to do that.” He continues, “So, uh, what were you two doing in a room together anyway? Hm?”

Mew laughs, again out of courtesy and politeness. It’s forced but Mild is their mentor and he seems to be full of smiles and jokes. And Mew should smile and laugh at them. Right?

He looks at Gulf, to see if he’s reacting the same.

He’s looking at Mew with that look again, like he’s trying to read him, peel away at him and get to his centre. He’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

“Hoy!” Mild is suddenly right between them, waving his hands in the air. “Are you two okay? What’s with the staring contest?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, breaking eye contact with Gulf and leading the other tribute towards the dining car.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” Mild says with narrowed eyes. “Are you two fighting? You two better kiss and make up.” He pauses with a knowing smile. “Or at least pretend to.”

Mew doesn’t have the time to wonder what Mild means before he disappears through the door.

* * *

Jennie Panhan is already waiting for them, the chairs across from her empty. The table is filled with delicate fine dishes and platters and towers of food. It’s probably the first time Mew has ever seen this much food in his entire life. And judging from Gulf’s wide eyes, it’s the same for him too.

“Come, come!” Jennie Panhan waves at Mew. “Sit down and eat!”

Mew learns the food on the table is just the pre-dinner food. “Appetizers,” Jennie calls it. Mew could feed him and his mother for months just with those dishes alone.

There are cheeses with colours in their names and salmon atop of crackers and dressed with herbs. Gulf bites into one and Mew watches his reaction, his lips turning up into a slight smile as he chews.

His nong catches him staring and sends him a particular look that makes Mew almost shiver but he stubbornly doesn’t look away. Neither does Gulf.

It’s like Gulf is daring him. To what?

It takes three claps from Jennie Panham and Mild’s nervous laughter to break the staring contest Mew had found himself in with Gulf.

“Eyes up here,” Jennie Panham says, snapping her fingers in front of Mew’s face. “Enough of — whatever you two are doing. There’ll be more time for that later. Anyway,” she says and gestures with a flourish towards Mild. “Let me formally introduce you to your fabulous mentor and my dear friend, Mild Suttinut!”

Mild stands up, clears his throat, and adjusts the collar of his shirt and bows. Jennie Panham is clapping, even whoops and motions for the two tributes to join in. Mew claps once politely and Gulf just pops another cracker in his mouth.

“Thank you, thank you. Don’t you all get out of your seats at once,” Mild says with an eye roll and a laugh. He sits down and turns to their escort. “Miss Jennie, I think we have a couple of fighters this year, don’t we?”

Jennie Panham smiles, teeth showing and eyes twinkling as bright as her purple nails. It makes Mew uncomfortable, the way they’re both looking at him. Like he’s the biggest oyster in the bucket. Ready to be cracked open and shucked.

“Ooh, I’m so excited!” Jennie Panham picks up a glass and nods it towards Gulf who doesn’t look amused at all. “Really helps that we got good looking ones this year.”

“How lucky for us,” Mild says and clinks glasses with her. They start laughing, even giggling. It’s like they’re performing still, always on, even though it’s just the four of them. No audience. No cameras.

It’s annoying.

“You’re supposed to give us advice.” It’s Gulf. His voice is stern and short, his lips in a firm line of disapproval. Mew has to hold in a snort when the two across from them stop laughing almost comically. They’re both wearing dramatic twin looks of shock. But Mew isn’t surprised to see the hardness in Gulf’s expression. It’s the same expression he had had during the reaping.

Mew really hates the idea that they need a mentor to help them gather sponsors. He hates that everything they do from now on is in the hands of the people from the Capitol. People who will be betting on them for bragging rights, for _sport._

And to think that they’ll never have to go through what he and Gulf will have to go through. But they’ll be the ones Mew will have to impress. And for what? A measly jar of ointment in a time of need? Food when he’s starved? Is it not already enough that he’s forced to be in the Games?

“Yes, your advice would be invaluable to us,” Mew adds and exchanges a look with Gulf. “As our mentor and escort, of course.” There’s something like pride that blooms in his chest when he sees Gulf smile.

“Okay okay,” Mild starts, grinning, and puts down his glass. The blood red liquid shakes slightly as the train sways at the beginning of a turn. “You want advice? Here’s some advice.”

Suddenly, there’s a knife in Mild’s hand and before Mew can even react, he’s up and above the them. Arm raised. Metal glinting in the lamplight.

There’s a sharp twang and a whoosh of cold air. And the next thing Mew sees is the knife in the table, just an inch away from their hands.

Somehow, Mew’s hand had found Gulf’s. His grip is tight and he thinks he should let go but Mew can’t seem to remember how to. All he can feel is his blood rushing to his ears and his heart hitting painfully in his chest.

He looks up at Mild, chest heaving, who towers over them. Gone is the crooked grin and eyes full of mirth. What’s replaced is something dark, something hungry, and dangerous. It feels foreign on his mentor’s usually laid-back face, but it’s all too familiar to Mew. He’s seen it on screen, in the Games, and sometimes, he catches it in his reflection just before he spears a fish.

It’s a reminder — a warning — that Mild Suttinut can kill.

“We’re gonna have to work on that,” says Mild, eyeing their joined hands and the knife that only missed because Mild let it. “Tell me, are you two a couple?”

A couple? Mew lets go immediately, like he’s been burned by Mild’s blunt question.

He has to force himself not to look to Gulf.

“What do you mean?” asks Mew.

Mild sits down and smiles at Jennie Panham, who’s been watching the entire exchange with crossed arms and a smug grin. She hadn’t flinched or reacted in anyway when Mild had essentially tried to kill them. “Well, from the sweet moment at the reaping to the way you two looked at each other on the train platform. I’d think —”

“You two were a couple.” Jennie Panham finishes, picking at a nail. Then directs her gaze almost violently at Mew. “So are you?”

“I…” Mew begins and is surprised to find Gulf looking back at him, expectantly. His large eyes make Mew hold his breath.

Why is this question difficult to answer at all? Of course, they’re—

“We just met,” Gulf says.

They hold each other’s gazes for a moment. There’s a weak pang in his chest and it goes away when Gulf looks away.

Mew breathes out.

“Hmm.” Mild squints at them and leans forward.

“Funny,” Jennie says, not laughing or smiling at all. “My little genies back in the Capitol are telling me everyone and their uncles have gone crazy over you two and the idea that you might be together. Imagine it: Two lovers in the arena. Fighting to save one another. How romantic! I’m surprised no one’s tried to sell that angle before.”

Mew doesn’t see how any of that was romantic at all.

“We didn’t plan any of that,” Mew clarifies.

“Well, that’s going to be the plan from now on,” Mild says and Mew opens his mouth to protest but Mild holds up a finger and wiggles it in front of their faces. “Nuh-uh. Don’t resist. You might not like what we do to you, but we’re your lifeline now. We’re the ones who will advise you, line you up with your sponsors, and dictate the presentation of District 4’s tributes. And we’re going to sell you two as a couple. All eyes will be on _you._ ”

_How disgusting._

Mew feels Gulf looking at him again, but he ignores it and the seething fire that’s clawing up his neck.

_“I want to be allies with Phi.”_

They were supposed to just be allies. That was it. It was supposed to be simple. He was going to play the Games on his own and on his own terms. Not like _this._ Not as a couple, whatever that meant.

He doesn’t know if he can do that. Pretend even more. He’s had to pretend not to be bothered when his entire District was booing him off the stage. He’s had to pretend to be strong as his mother cried on his shoulder. And he’s had to pretend to himself that the nong sitting beside him wasn’t affecting him more than he dared to admit.

So he should be used to this, right? After all, Mew’s been playing the role of a dead victor’s son all his life. 

But what if?

_What if I fall?_

And how do you catch someone when you’re already falling?

“Well, that settles it!” Jennie Panham unfolds her napkin and neatly places it on her lap. The train rattles and shakes Mew out of his thoughts. “Now as riveting as our chit chat has been, I’m _starved._ Let’s eat!”

* * *

Supper comes in courses: a thick orange soup (“Mmm, butternut squash, my favourite!” Mild exclaims), tangy dressed greens in a bowl with nuts and dried fruit, pork and beef, roasted potatoes and a creamed savoury grain with soft mushrooms (“Risotto,” Jennie Panhan helpfully offers), and chocolate cake.

The chocolate cake is immediately Mew’s favourite. He could eat the whole thing and Mild even says he’s allowed to. The only sweet foods he’s ever had were the berries they’d pick out in the forest. But he can feel his stomach already protesting against the thought of _more_ food. He’s only ever been used to the taste of seafood. Used to washing off sand and picking out every last scrap of meat off the tiny spines of fish. There have only been a handful of times Mew had been able to bring home a fillet of chicken or a strip of pork. It’s not a taste he particularly cares for actually, preferring the fresh taste of salmon over the way blood pools out of his steak. But Gulf seems to enjoy the pork the most.

“Gulf…” Mew whispers as he watches Gulf stuff a too large piece of potato in his mouth. “Slow down.”

Gulf doesn’t and just chews faster.

When they finish their meal, it’s clear Gulf is fighting to keep the food down. He looks a little green and his stomach is poking through his shirt. Mew wants to tell him he told him so, but Gulf looks so miserable, it’s sad and cute at the same time.

They go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. And if Mew sits a little closer to Gulf and lets him lean against his arm as he nurses his too full belly, Mew doesn’t mention it.

Mild does though. He keeps giving them pointed looks that Mew expertly ignores.

One by one, they see the other reapings from the other Districts. They examine their competition. Any other year and the roster would’ve been full of much younger faces which would usually already sit uncomfortably on his chest. But this year, the feeling is even worse. Because it’s not just prepubescent twelve year olds, terror in their eyes standing as tributes, but it’s also older ones, people that can barely see, let alone walk. A woman that looks almost in her 90s is reaped from District 2. She needs Peacekeepers to drag her out of her wheeled chair and up onto the stage where she shakily clings onto the other tribute. He smiles sweetly at the crowd while he looks at the woman with distaste. In District 3, a man with thick brows is chosen as tribute and who is surprisingly fit as someone who lives in that District. They're most known for being the feeble technological engines of Panem. So he’s someone who Mew takes note of. It wouldn’t be good to have both strength _and_ brains fighting up against you.

They show District 4 next. Jennie Panhan starts clapping excitedly and shushes Mild whose been wailing over the idea that District 2 and 3’s slips must have been rigged. Gulf is called, his face is shocked for only a second before they cut to him hugging his sister. Mew checks to see Gulf’s reaction but it's blank. Then the commentators tell everyone at home to hold onto their hats, “because here comes the exciting part!”

Jennie Panhan’s voice calls his mother’s name and the next thing you see, is Mew looking straight into the camera and volunteering. He can hear the desperation in his voice and Mew winces, just before he’s kicked to the ground.

“This is my favourite part!” Jennie Panhan whispers enthusiastically.

They watch as Mew limps up on stage. As Jennie Panhan welcomes him like she had just anointed him with the highest honour in Panem. The commentators gush and practically squeal in delight when Gulf takes his hand and they stand hand in hand as the anthem of Panem plays. One of them playfully throws out the idea of their combined their names and they show a picture of them together on the platform that appears within a heart shaped graphic. They even cut to a citizen in Panem excitedly sporting their combined names tattooed on their forearm. Mew can’t believe the lengths the people in the Capitol have gone to already

Mild’s laughing hysterically at this point and patting himself on the back. "They're practically doing the work for you!"

They never show his mother. It almost looks like Mew had volunteered to be with Gulf at this point. He’s not sure what to make of all this other than it makes Mew feel even sicker.

They move onto the other Districts. A shorter woman with long brown hair and gentle round eyes from District 6. A girl with one arm and a large man with a triangular nose from District 7. Someone tries to run in District 9 but the Peacekeepers don’t let them go very far. When they get to the last district, District 12, Mew is about ready to destroy the screen.

The male tribute is an eight-year-old boy named Rain. They rip him out of his father’s arms so fast, he doesn’t start crying until he’s on stage. No one holds his hand or comforts him. He’s just left up there, standing all by himself next to the image of a clown that’s supposed to be District 12’s escort. The youngest tribute in the history of the Hunger Games is what the commentators call him. But Mew commits his name to memory.

“I’m tired,” Gulf says suddenly and stands up, blocking the screen. Jennie Panham and Mild protest but Gulf just looks at Mew pointedly. “P’Mew should get some sleep too.”

“P’Mew?” Mild almost gawks.

“Oooh, pet names already?” Jennie Panham taunts and Mew feels almost embarrassed. He wishes Gulf wasn’t so forward.

“It just means brother in Thai,” Mew says quickly and stands up with Gulf. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But they don’t know that.” Mild nods to the screen that’s now showing hoards of people in the Capitol waiting by train platforms for their tributes.

Gulf doesn’t say any more and just walks out of the compartment, leaving Mew behind.

Their escort smiles mischievously. “It sure will be an interesting Games, indeed.”

**☼ ☼ ☼**

The whole night had been suffocating.

Gulf wants to slam open a window and stick his head out. Feel the chilly night winds until his eyes watered and his nose grew cold. But like the windows in Town Hall, the train is sealed shut.

Plus, he’d probably fall out of the train.

He wonders if it would hurt.

How did Phi do it? How did he smile and talk all evening while their mentor and escort plotted the rest of their lives? How did he react so fast when Mild almost cut their fingers off? How did he not just eat everything in sight because it was probably the only good thing to happen to them in the last twelve hours? And how did he not just throw it all back up watching all those people being reaped? He couldn’t have gotten out of there faster. Gulf wishes he knew how Mew really felt.

Did he really mean it when he said it meant nothing?

He supposes it would be easy for Mew then, to act as a couple. Gulf doesn’t have the slightest idea as to how that was all going to work. He was curious, but Mew had been expressionless when Mild had announced their plan. And Gulf didn’t know what to say and how he really felt.

All he knew was that it wouldn’t be so bad if it meant it was with P’Mew.

The sky is grey and dark now and his room is bathed in sterile white light from the lamps. Outside is a blur of black and green as the train climbs further and deeper into the heart of Panem.

Gulf presses his face against the glass. It’s cool against his hot skin and he closes his eyes.

“I miss you,” he whispers and hopes he gets to see Grace and his parents in his dreams tonight.

✿✿✿ 

The first place Grace goes after leaving Town Hall is the markets.

She doesn’t even know if her parents had tried to follow her and stop her. It’s where she goes after every reaping. She’d walk up from the docks with Gulf and he’d leave for the Hill while she turned into the crowd. Their parents would take the opportunity to walk the beaches hand in hand and Grace would come home with fish and grains. Gulf would eventually show up with dirt-stained fingers and wild greens and mushrooms because he doesn't like seafood.

What kind of person lives in District 4 and _doesn’t_ like seafood?

The market is quieter today. And less busy. It almost feels like everyone is making space for her as she moves.

She doesn’t even have to haggle too hard today. People easily hand over to her dried fish, a bag of shrimp, and even a couple of rare oranges that are only strictly grown for the people of the Capitol.

They all seem to be talking about her, but she’s too determined in her venture to buy things to care.

 _“_ Is that her?” she hears them whisper.

Grace eventually reaches the bakery. For a moment, she expects to see her mother inside, up to the elbows in dough. But she’s not there. Instead, the door is locked and it’s only Jom inside, the bakery owner.

She sees Grace though, a look of surprise on her face. When she opens the door, the smell of hot fresh bread drifts over her like a soft blanket.

“Grace,” Jom greets with a frown. Her black silky hair is down today and Grace realizes she’s only ever seen it covered in a hair net or a tied up in a bun. “I thought you’d be with your parents.”

Her parents. They must be so devastated. 

And Grace means to reply. She opens her mouth and tries to answer. Nothing comes out but a shaky, sad breath and Grace almost thinks she’s lost her voice.

But then she remembers why she’s here and holds out the bag of shrimp to show Jom. They’re red and tiny but they jump in the bag with energy.

“I was going to trade this for your cookies,” Grace says. It’s hard for her to look at Jom in the eye so she settles to look past her shoulder at nothing in particular. “Because my brother’s allergic—”

Grace gasps and covers her mouth. Reality hits her again, like it had when she had heard her brother’s name at the reaping. It’s painful and it’s hideous and it hurts, _so_ damn much.

She wants to scream.

Instead, she bites her lip and holds out a hand for Jom who takes it and guides her inside.

Her touch is gentle and warm and inviting.

**☼ ☼ ☼**

Gulf wakes up to rapping at the door and Mild’s muffled voice, calling for him to rise. “Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty! It’s show time!”

He can barely open his eyes. They’re swollen and glued shut from dried tears. His head is pounding something vicious too. He groans as he feels his stomach disagree with being awake.

For a moment, he almost forgets.

Almost.

He doesn’t remember how he’d gotten into bed last night and he’s still in his clothes from the night before. When he sits up, something heavy tugs at his throat and he realizes it’s Mew’s locket hanging from his back.

Gulf brings the locket around and his fingers trace the edges of the gold case. He thinks of the sea and the woods, of his mae starting the fire, of his pho and Grace waking up, having to get on with things.

He can’t remember if he had dreamt of them.

Gulf doesn’t bother changing even though his clothes are wrinkled. It doesn’t matter. They can’t be far from the Capitol now. And once they reach the city, their stylist will change his look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. It’ll be the first time since the reaping that his family will see him again.

“You look like shit,” Mild says when he enters the dining car. Gulf almost wants to give him the finger but thinks he should probably try not to die before he gets to the arena. Jennie brushes past him with a cup of green coloured milk, muttering something under her breath. Her hair is just slightly noticeably out of place and her make up isn’t entirely all on. But she’s all coloured pink and magenta this morning, a stark contrast to her energy. He guesses Jennie isn’t a morning person either.

Mew is seated already on a couch, legs crossed with a cup of coffee, looking clean and elegant in a white button down and parted hair. He looks over his cup at Gulf and smiles.

The morning doesn’t seem so bad after all.

“Sit down and eat something, will ya?” Mild waves him over to the table and starts filling Gulf’s plate. He didn’t think he could eat anymore from last night but his stomach churns in delight at the smell of fresh toast and jam.

He’s ten bites in until he feels human again and realizes Mew is still sitting on the couch, engrossed in what’s whizzing by outside.

“Aren’t you going to eat, P’Mew?”

“Hm?” Mew starts and blinks at him. “Oh, I’m not very hungry.”

Mild aww’s at them but Gulf chooses to ignore it and pokes a plump red strawberry with his fork.

He walks over to Mew who’s lost again to the scenery.

“Here,” Gulf says and nudges the strawberry at Mew’s lips. It gets Mew’s attention and gives Gulf the opportunity to shove the strawberry into Mew’s mouth.

Before Gulf can take in Mew’s reaction, he’s back in his chair again and practically buries his face back in his plate, his entire head feeling _hot_. He can hear Mild choking on something as Jennie clears her throat.

_Shia, how embarrassing._

He doesn’t know why he did that, but he just wants Phi to eat. It’s going to be a long day after all.

“Well,” is all Mild says before the car goes dark and the lights inside flicker back on. Outside, it’s as if night has fallen again. Gulf looks to Mew instinctively and sees he’s just as surprised as he is. His grip on his fork is tight and ready.

“We’re in the tunnel that runs through the mountains into the Capitol,” Jennie explains and settles into her seat again, nursing her green concoction.

Gulf remembers the map of Panem and how the mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the western Districts. It’s almost impossible to enter the from the west except through the tunnels. In the east, lakes surround the city and it’s said you can see across it for miles. These geographical advantages were major factors in the Districts losing the war that led to Gulf and Mew being tributes today. The Capitol is a well-guarded gem.

The tunnel goes on and on and Gulf thinks of the tons of rock separating them from the sky. Mew’s staring at the blackness of the windows, lost yet again to Gulf, his brow worried and lips pressed firmly together. His chest tightens as he thinks about what’s to come.

The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the compartment. Gulf can’t help it. He runs to the window as Mew stands up too to see what they’ve only ever seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. The cameras haven’t lied about its grandeur. If anything, they have not quite capturedits magnificence. Gleaming buildings in a rainbow of hues tower in the air. Even in the daylight, there are lights flashing and dancing over wide paved streets full of cars and people. The sound is what comes next: crashing cheers of excited voices come from oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal.

It reminds Gulf of the gulls that collect at the docks when the fishing boats return for the day: squawking, flapping, and calling for a chance at the full nets of fish.

The people begin to point at them eagerly as they recognize the tribute train rolling into the city. Mild tells him to wave so he does and everyone waves back. Gulf even smiles and finds it surprisingly easy, especially with the gawking crowd cheers even louder.

Beside him, Mew takes a step back. A pained, horrified expression flashes across his face before it disappears when he realizes Gulf’s seen it.

“Welcome to the Capitol!” Jennie exclaims. She’s back to her bubbly self and clapping. “Oh, it’s good to be home!”

☾ ☾ ☾

“Hmmm.”

Mew grits his teeth as Natt, a woman with no hair or eyebrows and aqua tattoos up along her neck plucks another hair off his face. Her face is almost pressed against his, hyperfocussed on yanking out every strand of stray hair on his entire body. It takes every bit of Mew’s strength not to recoil from her proximity. Mild’s voice sounds in his mind.

_Nuh-uh! Don’t resist. We’re your lifeline now._

By the end of it all, he’s going to be just as bald as her.

“Almost done, honey!” she sings in her silly Capitol accent. “At least you’re not as hairy as the other one.” She peers around the screen that separates him with all the other tributes and winces. Mew can hear the many _r-i-i-i-ps_ that accompany Gulf’s yelps. She shakes her head and makes what’s supposed to be a sympathetic face.

Why do these people need to do this to them? Scrub them raw and cut and pluck and rip what’s unappealing to them? Their high pitch sugary voices just add to Mew’s dying patience. It’s been three hours of this and Mew hasn’t even met their stylist.

He wants to ask Gulf if he’s okay but Natt throws a scalding towel over his face just as he’s about to.

“You’re doing great, sweetie,” says Anurak, a man with almost translucent skin and equally white long hair and brows. His eyes almost glow yellow. “Let’s grease him down!”

The two of them pull him from the table, removing the thin robe that he’d been allowed to wear off and on, and start rubbing him down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes his raw skin. Mew stands there, completely naked, as Natt and Anurak circle him, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair.

He should be embarrassed, but Mew’s already been beaten and ridiculed in front of thousands of people. Standing naked amongst these two comical beings that are supposed to be the people of the Capitol pales in comparison.

The two step back and admire their work. “That’s spicccy,” purrs Natt, and they both laugh. “Now you finally look as hot as you seem.”

Mew forces the hundredth smile in the last two days to show how grateful he is. “Thank you,” he says, trying to match their sickly sweet cadences. “You’ve worked very hard today.”

This makes both of them gush and clasp their hands together in delight. “Of course, you’re so very welcome, sweetheart!” says Natt.

“Once Parkorn is through with you, you’re going to be stunning, I just know it,” Anurak says and gives Mew’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze with his long fingered hand. “Why don’t we go get him now?”

They’re joined by the others who had been working on Gulf and they all saunter down the hall, leaving him standing there. In an odd way, Mew finds himself liking the two. They may be weird and every bit bred by the Capitol, but they’re just trying to help him.

“P’Mew?”

Gulf’s tiny voice breaks Mew out of his thoughts and he quickly realizes he’s still butt naked. He turns around frantically to retrieve his robe and covers himself up.

“I didn’t see anything!” is what Gulf squeaks out next. Mew finds that hard to believe.

“It’s fine, Nong,” he manages and steps closer to the stark white fabric screen that divides them. His face is burning now at the thought of Gulf seeing him, even though being naked at the opening ceremony has always been a fan favourite of the Capitol. One year, the two tributes from their district were completely naked with only fishing nets covering their faces.But here he was, blushing and exposed and alone in a room with Gulf. Wasn’t he just saying he wasn’t embarrassed just a minute ago?

“U-uh, are you still naked?” Gulf eventually asks.

“No.”

“Okay.”

They’re both quiet for a moment.

“Are you sure you’re not naked anymore?”

“Yes!”

This time Gulf steps onto his side of the screen. He’s also in a robe, skin shiny and glistening. His ears are aggressively bright red but he meets Mew’s eyes.

The sight of Gulf makes his own raw body heat up even more.

Just then, footsteps sound and a man who must be Pakorn appears from behind the divider. Mew is taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists in the Capitol are so dyed, stencilled and altered that they look inhuman. But Pakorn doesn’t have perfect features, or brightly coloured hair. He’s dressed in a simple grey shirt and his hair falls naturally in a swoop over his forehead.

“Hello, Mew. Gulf. I’m Pakorn, your stylist,” he says with a grin, his accent unlike those in the Capitol. Instead, it sounds familiar, like the way Mew’s mother speaks. “But call me Tul.”

“Hello,” Mew says cautiously.

“Sawasdee krub,” _Hello,_ Gulf says and makes wai.

Tul’s eyes instantly brighten and he gives Gulf a brilliant open smile as he makes wai back. It clicks for Mew what Tul’s accent is.

Gulf is so smart. The bloom in Mew’s chest flutters with pride.

“Oiii, I did not think I would ever meet another Thai person in the Capitol.”

Gulf smiles back. “P’Mew is Thai, too.”

Tul turns to Mew with a laugh and reaches out an inviting arm towards him. Mew instinctively does the same and they end up in a sort of half hug. It’s a gesture he’s not used to at all, having spent the entirety of his life ostracized in his own home. It takes Mew by surprise and he suppresses the need to push Tul away.

“What are the odds?” Tul exclaims and pats him on the chest. “Us bros need to stick together now.” He steps out of the embrace much to Mew’s relief and crosses his arms. “Now let’s take a look at you first, all right?”

Tul walks around him, not touching, but taking in every inch of him with his eyes.

“Wooow,” says Tul and nods approvingly. He turns to Gulf, his smile is warm and gentle. “Your turn now.”

Gulf fidgets just a bit and Mew has to resist reaching out a hand to still him. He settles on taking a step closer to Mew which earns him a look from Tul.

Tul rubs his chin as he looks with narrows eyes at the two of them.

“I see what they mean,” he says vaguely and nods. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”

They follow him down the hall, passing by other now empty stations of where the other tributes were being prepped, and through a door into a sitting room. Two large red couches sit in the middle of a room with a floor to ceiling glass wall, providing a view to the city. The mountains are mystically blue and white in the background.

Mew watches as Gulf makes a beeline for the window, his eyes hungrily taking in the scene. He reminds Mew of the first time he had seen whales in District 4. A decade and more ago, when his father was still alive and the world seemed like a magical, wonderful place.

 _“Her calf will swim alongside her their entire lives,”_ his father had said. _“He might leave for a while but he’ll always come back to her.”_

He still lets himself believe that the orcas the fishermen caught a few days later weren’t the same ones he’d seen himself.

Mew misses the sea.

Tul gestures for Mew to sit on one of the couches and he takes the place beside him as they watch Gulf at the window. He leans in and whispers in Mew’s ear, “He’s someone special, isn’t he?”

Mew expects to see something hungry and predatory in Tul’s face. It’s how everyone’s been looking at Gulf since the reaping. But Tul looks genuine and Mew can’t decide if that’s more unnerving or not.

“I wouldn’t know,” Mew lies.

Tul’s eyes narrow again and for a moment, he thinks the stylist is mad but then he leans back and is smiling again, shaking his head. “And you’re badass. I was told you’d be stubborn but this? Mmhm, I know a badass when I see one.”

Mew doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t want to admit he _does_ like the sound of that.

“Don’t worry, bro.” Tul says as Gulf walks over and sits across from them. “I’m going to make the both of you look like the most badass tributes in all of Panem.” He places both hands on Mew’s shoulders and massages them. “Now how much skin are you comfortable with flaunting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betcha thought i forgot ;) also me making the decision to make gulf as the sun emoji is messing with my mewgulf brain
> 
> LOL anyway, thanks for reading!


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